I can make you mine…

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(Warning: explicit sex fantasy ahead. Don’t read if you don’t want to know!)

There has not been a waking moment in the last 8 1/2 years of my life during which I was oblivious to the fact of my disability. No matter what I’m doing, it is something with which I’m either peripherally (while reading or watching movies) or monumentally (scouting for a parking place, cursing at the toilet to stop fucking running when I’m stuck in bed at night) aware. My physical issues are, by necessity, a factor in every conscious move I make.

When I sleep, though, I dream, and apparently the crip message has never been passed on to my unconscious mind–it churns out the same kind of incredibly detailed, colorful, sound- and sensation-filled dreams I’ve always had, and in every single one of them I am unfailingly able-bodied. Not only am I perfectly preserved as the person I call “Old Me,” but it often seems as if the most vividly realistic dreams are playing out an alternate reality, one where my brother and I didn’t climb into his truck together that Friday night and my life proceeded along the path I had laid out. I’ve dreamed myself doing home improvements, driving my cute little car, shoe shopping, at parties, and at work. And, of course, having sex. Most frequently, and most recently, the best of these feature The Crush (formerly known as the ManOfMyDreams).

You’re driving me home from a party, late on Saturday night. It’s either early spring or mid-autumn; warm enough during the day that I dressed in a short skirt and light sweater, but chilly enough this late to need the heater on in the car. You’re laughing at me as I complain about getting trapped in the kitchen with the wives, as usual, when all I wanted was to watch the game and drink beer with you and the guys; you laugh harder, bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners, when I hug my bare legs to my chest and pull my sweater over my knees. You tell me to turn on the in-seat heater if I’m so cold and I have to confess that my seat is the last part of me that needs heating.

I’ve been wanting you, craving you, I say, since you walked into my living room that afternoon, and the drive home is taking way too long; I ask you to promise me that as soon as we get in the door that you’ll fuck me, I don’t care about the details, the how or where. You aren’t a stupid man, so you nod your agreement and, just that fast, the air pressure inside the car changes. We aren’t cracking jokes anymore, my arms and legs feel heavy, and at the minute it’s all I can do to breathe.

At the next stoplight you run your fingertips, feather-light, up the inside of my left thigh, and I see the muscles in your jaw clench in reaction to either the heat you feel under my skirt or the way my knees voluntarily part for you. Just as the light goes green I brush a kiss against your earlobe and whisper “I can’t wait.”

You take your right hand away in order to shift gears and whisper something barely audible. When I ask you to repeat it, your eyes meet mine again and your voice is firm. “I said show me. Show me that you can’t wait…flip up the front of that skirt, reach between your legs, and show me for the next five minutes how horny you are.” You know that I don’t ask any questions when you speak to me that way; I ceded control of the night to you already and that authoritative tone tells me you’ve accepted it. There’s nothing for me to do but follow directions, so I scoot down a little in the seat, still securely buckled behind the seatbelt, allow my knees to fall apart, bunch my skirt up in my left fist, and rub myself through the dampened crotch of my panties. Your instructions continue as you drive–”harder. Now slip you hand inside your panties and circle your clit…Stop! Don’t cum yet, that’s for me.”

By the time you pull into my driveway, I’m panting; you have me slowly fucking myself with two fingers and tell me not to stop as you step out to open the garage door. You pull in, park, then repeat yourself as you shut off the engine. “Don’t stop.” In a blink you’re opening the passenger side door and leaning in to kiss me, then pulling my right hand to your mouth and sucking its wet fingers. Smiling at my whimper, you take my hands and help me to stand, your arm tight around my waist to steady me. You kiss me again, this time all tongue and teeth and fire, and walk me backwards until my ass hits the hood of your car.

Your tongue still in my mouth, your hands find the backs of my thighs and you lift me, sitting me on the still-warm hood. Your mouth trails across my cheek and down my neck to that spot, just above my shoulder, where it stays as you tug at the buttons down the front of my sweater; I vaguely hear two of them hit the concrete floor before you manage to reach the front clasp of my bra and snap it open. Only then do you lift your head, to watch my body’s reaction as you push back both layers of clothing–my sharp intake of breath as my bare breasts are exposed to the chilly air, my nipples tightening even further, impossibly erect, the arch of my back toward you…and the look of concern that crosses my face when I look around and see the garage door still open, exposing me/us to anyone who passes by.

“Forget it,” you growl, but I already have as your hands have fallen to my tits–pinching, pulling, rolling. I wrap my legs around your hips as you stand before me, and feeling your cock hard against me through your jeans and my flimsy underwear pulls your name from my mouth in a moan. You lift me again, putting me back on my unsteady feet (still shod in my favorite platform pumps). You kiss me once more, smiling against my mouth as I loosen your belt, pop the button, and lower the zip of your fly, but you grab my hands as I move to pull down your jeans and reach for your cock. Instead, you spin me roughly and push down on the small of my back, forcing my upper body to sprawl across the hood of your car, my over-stimulated nipples pressed into the rapidly-cooling steel.

The cold air hits my ass now–you’ve flipped up the back of my skirt and are silently admiring me, exposed and outlined by a black thong and presented so perfectly against the shiny black of the fender. You make me wait for what feels like hours before I feel your hands slowly grip the sides of my panties and even more slowly peel them down, leaving the damp scrap puddled around my ankles. You step closer now, close enough that I can feel your lowered jeans rasp against the backs of my thighs and finally, finally, feel your cock probing at me, slipping back and forth along the gathered wetness between my legs. I slide my feet apart, just inches, and wait…one second, two, three…and you slide into me, all at once but not hurried, until your hipbones nestle into the curve of my ass, your ragged groan matching mine as you bottom out.

You stop here, cradling my hips in your hands, and ask if I’m okay; I sigh and softly demand “just fuck me.” You laugh quietly, bend and place a kiss between my shoulder blades, then straighten. Your fingers dig into my hips, almost painfully now, and you begin to move. Withdrawal and thrust, withdrawal and thrust…long, full strokes that buckle my knees, my upper body lurching back and forth on the hood of your car, my breath fogging its waxed surface. The head of your cock bumps my g-spot with every in, every out, and my orgasm has been delayed for so long and I’m so turned on by you, and the situation, and the neighbors might see or hear me but I don’t care–and then I’m cumming, and you’re praising me but you don’t stop. You keep fucking, your own breath getting ragged, and just when it seems that my orgasm must be over I feel your hand tighten in my hair at the nape of my neck and you pull on this rough ponytail, pulling me into a standing position and holding me there as the fingers of your other hand snake around me and go to work on my clit, working it between your first and middle fingers, forcing me through one last surge of sensation until, mercifully, I hear you grunt and feel the hot, pulsing surge of your cum.

Aaaand that’s when I woke up; I swear I was still mid-contraction when my eyes opened. The dream was honestly this clear, and that tactile.

I’ve had dreams like this one, about this person, since shortly after we met. I wish I had had the courage to tell him about these fantasies ten years ago, when it may have made a difference, before I broke my fool neck, before I went to his wedding, before it was, in the words of Joey Tribiani, a moo point. Maybe the day in the office that he rested his hand on the small of my back and, though it was a simple gesture, I hyperventilated all afternoon. Or the night over beers when he asked what I thought about his date. I never did it, though, so I suppose my Plan B is to tell the entire internet the ten of you who read this.

I’m incredibly grateful for the dreams, though. In them I’m still on my feet, still hot, and still getting laid on a semi-regular basis. No wonder I sleep ten hours a night.

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